


House of my Soul (You Light the Rooms)

by MooeyDooey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is less emotionally constipated but too nosy for him own good, Crowley is emotionally constipated, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, good ol sap and fluff, some very good plant care and some very bad plant care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 04:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooeyDooey/pseuds/MooeyDooey
Summary: The problem with plants is that if you talk to them for long enough, they'll eventually start listening.





	House of my Soul (You Light the Rooms)

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: I haven’t written a fic for YEARS but the new Good Omens tv series turned me absolutely feral. This fanfic was actually supposed to be a small drabble about Crowley and Aziraphale getting together, and was going to have the full cast of characters making small appearances. But then I ended up writing 10k words about a plant and thought trying to squeeze in anything else would take away from the story. So here you go! Enjoy! Plant Fic 
> 
> Beta-edited by @tinypackmule on twitter! BIGGEST THANKS TO HOLLAND for putting up with me accidentally calling the bookstore "Crowley's bookstore" and fixing it before I made a DANG FOOL OF MYSELF on the internet 
> 
> Song in the title and in the beginning / end of the fic is House of my Soul by Langhorne Slim!

 

_It’s hard to put it into words,_

_When I tried I felt absurd, but_

_You light the rooms of my soul!_

_I tell myself not to lose control_

  


[about 15 years after the end of the world.]

 

It was an unusually sunny day for the time of year in London. While Crowley’s plants never needed full and direct sunlight in order to thrive, the rare extra light from the large windows in the room was a more than welcome invitation. Even the ones who thrived in more the shadowy areas seemed to enjoy the extra natural light. They’d all turn their leaves to the window in unison and bask in the bright warm energy gifted to them.

 

Nothing bad ever happened on a bright and sunny day.

 

Which was why it came as such a large surprise to the lot of them when, on that particular bright and sunny day, a certain dark menace appeared in the room and, without any sort of inspection or quality check, scooped up one of the smaller plants into his hands.

 

The plant Crowley had scooped up, pot and all, was an innocent alocasia plant.

 

As Crowley stormed out of the room, plant in hand, the alocasia couldn’t help but think:

 

_Why me?_

 

_My leaves are all in order. I have no spots, no holes. My stalks are firm and strong, I haven’t been drooping at all._

 

_What am I being punished for? What have I done?_

 

The plant had, for obvious reasons, been expecting to end its journey that day in a wood chipper, or some other horrible machine created for the destruction of plants. However, shockingly, it soon found itself set down on a flat surface. Not a wood chipper, but a solid counter-top.

 

The dreaded Crowley, overlord of plants, destroyer of leaves, the villain that struck horrific fear into every shrub that came into his possession, took a seat on a couch across from the houseplant. He had a bottle of alcohol with him (something powerful) and a glass that he had finished almost three times in the span of carrying one houseplant over into the living room.

 

After one more healthy serving of alcohol, he enlightened the plant with a brief explanation.

 

“Now. You may wonder why I’ve brought you here. You haven’t done anything wrong. Not yet,” he said, squinting his eyes suspiciously at the plant for good measure.

 

The plant quivered, obediently. This seemed to please Crowley enough, who lounged back on the couch and continued his train of thought.

 

“You see. I’ve brought you here because I am in need of a counselor. A …. Second opinion. An audience to help me sort out a certain problem of mine,” Crowley explained, sitting up enough to take another swig of his drink. “Specifically, a captive audience who is both unwilling, and incapable of actually sharing their opinion with me. I don’t want to _listen_ to anyone’s opinions on my personal life, you see. I just want to talk. That’s all. Do you understand?”

 

The plant, in response, only continued to quiver. Not so much as to insult his master, but not so little to make said master question his intimidating influence.

 

“That’s a good lad,” Crowley said. “Right then, where was I? Oh. Yes. The predicament. Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he continued, making a grand gesture with one of his hands. “Crowley you know _so_ many people. You have connections, right? Of course I do. I’ve got loads of them, connections everywhere. Only the thing is, my current predicament is a very sensitive subject. Not sure I’d trust that information with anyone who’s got a mouth.”

 

Crowley sat up on the couch now, seemingly responding to himself, in a slightly higher pitched tone. “But Crowley, don’t you have friends? Surely you can ask one of them for advice,” he said, before scoffing at his own remark. He frowned, shaking his head slightly. “But no. I don’t have friends. I have just the one, and he is the absolute last person in the entire universe I can speak to about this specific matter. Demons don’t have friends. _I’m_ not supposed to, but I somehow managed to pick one up without even realizing it,” he said.

 

The plant said nothing.

 

“But that’s besides the poin- … no. Actually, that is the point. Because it’s about the one friend that I’m not supposed to have, that I do have. I know you’ve seen him before. The light blond chap, comes and takes a look at you any time he visits, dresses in the old vests and- Did you know. He has fabric pills, all over his jacket. You know, those little tufts of fabric that get stuck together on cheap fabric if you don’t take your jacket to a dry cleaner often enough?”

 

Crowley took another long sip of his drink, finishing off one single serving of questionable liquid content in one gulp. It refilled immediately.

 

“I’m getting off topic. I just hate those fabric pills _so_ much. I have half the mind to steal his jacket some time when he’s not looking and shave them all off. And I hate how messy his book shop is. It looks terrible, there’s barely any space to move around in it,” Crowley said.

 

The plant said nothing.

 

“And I hate how fucking self-righteous he can be. Even when he’s _clearly_ wrong, it’s all ‘ _I have a natural proclivity to do good, I don’t think my instincts can be wrong_ ’. Pah,” Crowley said, brows furrowed.

 

“And if he ever realizes he made a mistake he looks too pathetic to get any kicks out of rubbing it in his face,” Crowley added, frowning more at the thought of it. “I hate that too, even before we were friends, it was never any fun beating him at anything. Well, not anything serious. Beating him at a card game or in a bet is fun. Anything having to do with work? Psh. Forget it,” Crowley said, focused on the glass around the rim of his cup.

 

The plant had stopped quivering by now, but still said nothing.

 

“I hate his _stupid_ magic tricks. And I hate how he doesn’t mend the holes in his suits. I hate how _he_ apologizes after someone _else_ bumps into him. And I hate the dust all over his store. And I hate …” Crowley trailed off. He trained his gaze far off into the distance, not even willing to lock eyes with a vaguely sentient plant for this next bit.

 

“But he _is_ my friend. We’ve both talked about it, we both agree that after everything we’ve been through, labeling our previous Agreement as a friendship seems… justified. So we’re friends. Best Friends Forever,” Crowley said, still focused on that far off place.

 

The plant listened, patiently, and said nothing.

 

“That’s enough to make me happy. Or content, I’m not sure which. Either way, it’s not a bad thing. I’d be a right bastard for wanting anything more than that, wouldn’t I?” Crowley questioned.

 

He did not need to wait for a response from the plant. It was, after all, a plant. Therefore, it was unable to respond to Crowley’s rhetorical questions. Which is exactly what Crowley needed.

 

Crowley leaned forward in his seat, setting his drink down on the table. He let out a frustrated sigh while running his hands through his hair.

 

“It’s… not that I want anything more. What we’ve had these past 15 years have been the best years of my life. Out of all the thousands and thousands of years I’ve been stationed here, these ones…” he trailed off, gaze trained on the floor now.

 

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Crowley had been on earth for many, many years, and had existed for an incalculable amount of time before that. He didn’t have too many memories of heaven after his creation, other than how boring it was. He remembered falling, and knew that the years between his vague saunter downwards and the creation of the planet earth were a shitshow (part of the reason he had no problems accepting the job of crawling up to Eden to tempt the first humans, anything to get out of that mess).

 

The first significant conversation he had, throughout his whole existence, was his conversation with the Guardian of the East Gate at the garden of Eden.

 

The next part of his lifespan worth reminiscing about was the creation of Noah’s ark.

 

Crowley had done plenty of successful tricks on his own, feats he would gladly boast about to anyone with enough knowledge about the truth behind the creation of humanity.

 

But his successes never gave him true joy. Thinking back on the worst and most evil deeds he had ever influenced into humans made him feel mildly amused. He liked the boasting more than he liked the deeds themselves.

 

Every time he had run into Aziraphale throughout the history of the world, those were the days that stuck in his mind. Those were the memories he turned to when the weight of over 6,000 years of memories and triumphs and failures weighed heavy on him.

 

And for the past one or two or however many decades, Aziraphale had been by his side on a much more consistent basis.

 

Once upon a time they had gone 5,000 years without seeing any sight or even mention of one another.

 

Then it became 1,000 years.

 

Then 100.

 

Then a few decades.

 

Which lead to a lone decade.

 

The agreement they made to co-influence young Warlock (the false Anti-christ) must have been what started a more significant change. They went from only seeing each other every 10 or so years to seeing each other every few days. Both when they were in disguise, and after Warlock went to sleep, when they could drop their disguises and go out to discuss the happenings and events of the day.

 

Now that the apocalypse had almost happened, and then passed, Crowley couldn’t go a week without checking in on his dear best friend.

 

For the average human, with a normal life span of about 80 to 100 years, this would be the equivalent of texting your most treasured companion every 30 minutes. Thoughtful, and well intentioned, but almost alarmingly co-dependent.

 

“I don’t think I’d mind seeing him every day,” Crowley added, almost too quietly for his temporary plant companion to not-hear.

 

The plant, as it could not truly understand the complexity of what Crowley was mentioning, stayed silent.

 

“He’s never complained about it, me showing up on his doorstep so often. He’s never turned me away. Well, not since the crusades. But I don’t blame him, he had plenty of other things on his mind at the time,” Crowley said. He almost laughed, but the laughter died in his throat before it could reach the surface.

 

He was too close to the truth to feel humorous about his predicament anymore.

 

“Can’t stand God or heaven. Can’t stand Satan. Can’t stand being around any of the lords of hell. Humans are interesting, but they die off fast and most of them can’t remember more than a century of information. There’s only one…. One of anything who…”

 

Crowley was too deep in his own thoughts. He didn’t even notice the plant before him lean ever so slightly closer to him, collecting the information given to it.

 

“I don’t want anything more. All I want is more time with him. I don’t care if it’s lunch, or drinks, or talking, or anything else. I just... don’t want it to stop.”

 

Crowley was laying back on the couch now, no drink in hand. Only him, the calm silence of the room, and one very attentive plant.

 

“It can’t stop if it doesn’t change, right? If everything paused right here, I’d be happy. Forever. So no confessions. No talking about our _feelings_. Clearly, the most heinous, most selfish thing to do in this scenario, is not bring anything up and sweep it all under the rug. Obviously,” Crowley said.

 

He didn’t seem pleased by the answer he gave himself, but found it reasonable enough to accept.

 

Crowley sat back up in his seat. He seemed tired, but content with his personal conclusion.

 

“That’s enough of that,” he muttered to himself.

 

He stood up and swept the house plant up from the coffee table in front of him. He held the thing up close to his face, which sentit quivering with fear once again.

 

“Before I return you, I want to make one thing absolutely clear. If. For whatever reason. Aziraphale shows up in my flat. And you so much as _hint_ to him what we’ve spoken about today. I will throw you. Full force. Off of my balcony. And into the streets below. Do you understand?” Crowley asked.

 

All that the alocasia could do, due to the increased anxiety that suddenly surged through it’s system, was shake even more aggressively. Crowley, unable to understand plants, could only assume that meant it understood Crowley’s demands.

 

Satisfied, Crowley returned the alocasia to it’s spot in his plant room, and went to pass out in his bed until he had a reason to regain consciousness.

 

* * *

 

Weeks later, Aziraphale made one of his regular visits to Crowley’s apartment for an evening of good conversation and drinks.

 

Part of the usual evening, normally right after Aziraphale arrived, was dedicated to viewing the plants. Somehow, though he had seen the plants numerous times over the past decade, Aziraphale remained awestruck at the quality and beauty in Crowley’s collection. Both of the men made their usual stop into the plants’ room, where Aziraphale made his rounds, appreciating every plant, while Crowley watched from the doorway.

 

Crowley normally spaced out at this point in the evening, half invested in Aziraphale’s grand compliments and appreciation for the health of the plants, and half invested in supper plans (and whether he had enough wine for the night or if he’d have to create some more).

 

Crowley was, however, immediately snapped out of his supper planning when he heard Aziraphale’s voice exclaim,

 

“Oh! You poor thing, you’re quivering. What’s wrong?”

 

Ten seconds later, the small alocasia plant was thrown full force off of Crowley’s balcony, soaring through the air before crashing against a building on the opposite side of the street. It then subsequently fell down to the sidewalk below in a messy twisted pile.

 

Aziraphale joined Crowley on the balcony moments later, looking down into the street to inspect the damage.

 

“Good heavens, whatever was that for?” he questioned.

 

Crowley squinted his eyes, glowering down at the fallen plant.

 

“It knows what it did,” he spat, before turning on his heel and walking back inside.

 

* * *

 

There’s truly nothing sadder than throwing a potted plant full force off of the balcony of a decently sized apartment building.

 

There are plenty of things that can end a plant’s life-span immediately. Burning, for instance, is a very effective manner of shrugging off the mortal coil of a common houseplant. Shredding also happens to be quite effective.

 

Throwing and breaking a pot against a building, and then losing its soil due to the velocity of the fall, is not an effective execution method. The only option for death it leaves, quite frankly, is the human equivalent of slowly dehydrating to death, while simultaneously starving.

 

For most plants, this isn’t a problem. They lack the proper understanding and knowledge of existence to truly feel any suffering while their leaves dry out. Such is a natural state for them.

 

But most plants were not threatened on a daily basis by a very powerful demonic spirit and subtly encouraged to truly value the cushy life they had living in a fancy apartment complex, only so they’d fear losing it and become inspired to grow stronger.

 

The alocasia didn’t want to die. Not yet, at least. It wasn’t ready to dry up on the edge of a hot sidewalk, or be taken to a dump to rot away in piles of trash.

 

Luckily for the alocasia, a certain angel had been quite taken aback by its seemingly unfair punishment. No more than 5 hours after its journey out of the apartment, two kind hands came by and scooped it up from the sidewalk.

 

“There we are. Still not a leaf out of place! Well. If he doesn’t want to have you around, you’ll have to come home with me,” Aziraphale said. He stayed kneeling, picked up as much soil into his hands as he could find, before standing up with the plant cradled close to his chest.

 

“I’ll have to warn you, I haven’t had a plant of my own yet. But I’ve worked in a garden a few times in my life, and each time I did I had-”

 

Aziraphale cut himself off, trying to figure out the best way of describing his work ethic.

 

“I’ve had general success, across the board. Overall. With the plants, at least. But I’m _sure_ we’ll get along quite well!”

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale was definitely not naturally cut out for taking care of a houseplant.

 

Houseplants, to Aziraphale’s surprise, were quite different than the natural florals that inhabited gardens. Gardens could mostly be left on their own, persuaded to grow lush and full with small miracles and rainfall. Houseplants were far less independent and more sensitive to their environmental surroundings.

 

Admittedly, the poor thing had gotten sick or perished in multiple ways under Aziraphale’s care.

 

One time, the angel added far too much water to the soil, for almost a week in a row. The alocasia drowned.

 

Another time Aziraphale forgot to water the alocasia for a few weeks, after he made a trip out of town to inspect some curious events happening a few countries away. The plant was dehydrated by the time he got back.

 

The alocasia, at this point, had been over watered and under watered so many times, the cycle of death and the inevitable miracling back to life became a steady routine. Multiple minor miracles were the reason for its continued existence, but still, it remained thankful for the opportunity to continue growing.

 

Shockingly, due to the alocasia’s location within Aziraphale’s bookshop and home, Crowley almost never found out about the plant’s existence. Aziraphale had, wisely, put the plant behind a few stacks of books. Crowley never touched the books. Never cared to, never had a reason to.

 

That was, until, he had a reason to. To make a point.

 

It had begun like any normal evening, when they went back to Aziraphale’s bookshop after a lofty dinner out at an expensive restaurant. They started opening bottles of wine, then they both started babbling, until they found a topic interesting enough to talk about for the rest of the night.

 

By happenstance, Crowley mentioned at some point in the night that Aziraphale might want to consider moving _some_ of the books out of his shop.

 

Which turned into Aziraphale asking, as politely as he could, why Crowley seemed concerned about the volume of books in his residence. It was, after all, a _book_ shop, therefore having a great deal of books made sense.

 

To which Crowley was obligated to point out that it was a book _shop_ , and Aziraphale was beginning to collect books to the point where stacks of books were becoming large impassable barriers within the store, making it hard to move around the space.

 

Aziraphale scoffed and insisted Crowley was exaggering, but the devil stood up, moving to the side of the room to prove a point.

 

Crowley pointed to his work desk.

 

“I get collecting rare books. Believe me, angel, I do. But nothing in this giant pile on what is supposed to be your work desk, has any sentimental or monetary value,” Crowley said.”Look.”

 

To make a point, Crowley began to pick up the books one by one, holding them up for Aziraphale to see.

 

“Wuthering Heights. Not even a first edition, looks fairly new. How much is this one worth?” Crowley asked.

 

Aziraphale sat taller in his seat, looking indignant.

 

“It was… printed in the 1930s. I saved it from a book burning, and I’d rather not give it away to anyone who wouldn’t appreciate what it’s survived,” he responded.

 

Crowley put it aside, picking up the next book.

 

“And this? The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman? How many copies of this do you even have?” he asked.

 

“Just three. And one of them is very old and _quite_ valuable, so it can’t be read for leisure without an incredible amount of care when flipping the pages. The one you’re holding my reading copy,” Aziraphale explained.

 

“And the second?”

 

“... Well. I- … I appear to have misplaced it, temporarily. I am absolutely sure it’s around here. Somewhere,” Aziraphale said, doubtfully. “And until I find that second copy, I refuse to part with the third,” he added, more defiantly.

 

Crowley rolled his eyes, setting that book aside as well. His hand reached for a third.

 

“And what about-”

 

Aziraphale suddenly realized the breach in his beloved house plant’s protective wall of literature.

 

“Ah! Wait-”

 

It was too late. Crowley had looked back over to the pile of books, intending to see the title of the next useless book he had picked from the pile, and instead found his eyes focused on a certain, familiar, quivering plant.

 

His eyes narrowed, and he slowly set the book down on the work desk, then slowly removed his sunglasses, depositing them into one of his pockets.

 

“ _You_ ,” he growled out at he plant.

 

The angel was on his feet and standing next to him rather quickly, fluttering about, doing his best to de-escalate the situation.

 

“Yes! My dear, that does seem to be the exact plant you launched off of your balcony some time ago, doesn’t it? I mean, of course, possible because, that is the plant you threw out. They are one in the same. It was quite the coincidence, really. After I left your flat that night I just so happened to cross the street and saw it lying on the road! It hadn’t been trampled or thrown out, I was sure some sort of herbivore may have found it, or it may have gotten blown away by a gust a wind, but there it was! I was sure if I left it, something may have happened eventually… and, well you see, you clearly no longer wished to have any ownership over the poor thing, haven’t the faintest idea why, so the plant was lying on the side of the street, quite unclaimed, surely doomed to some sort of terrible fate. And I thought… well, I supposed there wouldn’t be any harm in me, possibly, collecting what remained of it and…. Bringing it into my shop?”

 

Crowley did not break eye contact with the alocasia during Aziraphale’s rambling. He stayed right where he was, a serpent prepared to lash out and strike, witnessing the renewed sense of pure terror coursing through the small potted plant.

 

Crowley did consider Aziraphale’s argument. Slightly. More important than the angel’s justifications though was one simple deduction. Aziraphale didn’t know what Crowley had against the plant. Therefore, in the months of being under Aziraphale’s care, it either hadn’t indicated its secrets to the angel, or wasn’t able to communicate the full depth of the forbidden knowledge it held.

 

The alocasia was incompetent, but it wasn’t a snitch. Crowley could, he supposed, appreciate that.

 

Crowley slowly put his sunglasses back on, letting his shoulders drop slightly. He turned his head to Aziraphale, who was still desperately trying to convince Crowley to not take out his un-holy wrath upon the poor innocent potted plant. He cut in, before Aziraphale could go further.

 

“You can’t keep it over here,” he said.

 

Aziraphale frowned deeply, placing his hands on his hips in a stubborn display.

 

“Whyever not?? It isn’t doing any harm. Why should it have to be thrown out? I-”

 

Crowley cut him off with a groan.

 

“No, angel. You can’t keep it directly on the windowsill. It’s getting too much sunlight over here, these ones need indirect sunlight,” he explained, in a calmer tone. He reached out to the plant, which caused its leaves to jump slightly, then settle once it found that all he was doing was turning one of the leaves over.

 

“You’ve been over watering it too. See all this? That’s fungus.” Crowley explained. “Satan’s breath, these leaves are soaking wet. Have you been misting it too?”

 

Aziraphale looked very perplexed by Crowley’s new line of questioning, but did settle down slightly once he realized the plant was not in immediate danger of being catapulted out of his bookstore.

 

“Well… of course. I always see you spraying your plants with a mister. I thought that was proper plant care?” Aziraphale questioned.

 

Crowley took his hand away from the plant, shaking his head.

 

“Some plants need it, not this type. Combined with the rivers of water you’ve been pouring in the soil, you’re just giving the fungus more to feed off of. Just for curiosity's sake, just how many times has this thing died in your _care?”_

 

Aziraphale’s cheeks took on an ashamed pink tinge. “... Perhaps a few. Several, you might say. I’ve been…. Using small miracles to restore it back to full health.”

 

Crowley couldn’t help but smirk upon hearing that information. Perhaps, he thought, being sentenced to a life in Aziraphale’s bookshop, constantly dying via dehydration and overhydration and fungal infections and drying out in the sunlight, was a much more terrible and heinous punishment than anything he had subjected to the previous plants that had disappointed him.

 

Yet again, Aziraphale had managed to assist in Crowley’s personal work.

 

But still. He couldn’t bring himself to sit by and watch Aziraphale flub up something that Crowley took personal pride in. If they were to continue to be associated with one another (which they would, Crowley hoped, for many more centuries), Crowley wanted to make sure Aziraphale at least knew the proper way to take care of a plant. He’d surely mess it up again, and leave the plant to dehydrate or gather fungus many more times, but he should at least know.

 

After all. Sharing knowledge, forbidden or un-forbidden, was also Crowley’s specialty.

 

“Right then. First, we take it away from the window. It can be close to a window, just not directly in front of it. If you’re not going to miracle away that fungus on it, you’ll have to trim away the infected leaves. A humidifier wouldn’t hurt, if you’re not worried about that affecting the books,” Crowley explained.

 

They spent the rest of the evening talking about the finer points of plant-care, proper watering schedules and amounts, anti-fungal plant treatments and how to keep bugs from eating holes through the leaves.

 

* * *

 

In the following weeks, the alocasia plant recovered from its multiple water and sun-based illnesses. It flourished under its new, less hidden, much more appropriate environment.

 

The plant had its own surface space, close to, but not directly in front of a window.

 

It had a small humidifier placed quite close to it, strong enough to strengthen its stalks, without harming the piles of books that stood a few feet away from the plant’s personal space.

 

And it was watered appropriately. Just enough to keep the soil moist, with no water dripping through the bottom of the pot.

 

Crowley, any time he was left on his own in the book shop, would still give the plant a terrifying glare, and whisper threats of what he would do to it should Aziraphale _ever_ find out what secrets Crowley had shared with it.

 

Kept firmly in its place, the plant obeyed, and never said a thing.

 

* * *

 

Truly, the plant never said a word. It had no mouth, so it could not talk.

 

It could, however, understand most of what was said to it. An unfortunate side effect of being spoken to by not one, but two supernatural beings, on a regular basis.

 

It had first been cursed with the grim reality of its own mortality, trained to fear the threat of losing its existence through some heinous form of destruction. It learned shame for not standing as firmly or growing as tall as what was expected of it, pride when it was deemed to be in acceptable condition, and the very human emotion of an overwhelming desire for a tropical vacation get-away.

 

After the plant changed homes, it picked up some new emotions. It learned to appreciate the finer things in life, like old music, the occasional excited bustle of small groups of people when they were allowed into the shop during its rare opening hours, and the occasional nip of whisky that his new master would often put into its soil because it was ‘nice to share’. It learned the joys of real conversations, often being on the listening end of his master’s long winded rambles when the angel wasn’t able to or not in the mood to find human (or demon) company.

 

It had even been blessed with its very own name. After some careful thought and deliberation, it had been given the name ‘Alfred’. It had been the name of a very pleasant hearing-impaired man that Aziraphale had once met in a gentleman’s club. Although the man could speak, forming the words and annunciating them properly was difficult, so he seemed to prefer communicating through a series of gestures, and listened via lip-reading. Despite the lack of verbal communication, their conversations were incredibly riveting, and had stuck around in Aziraphale’s memories ever since.

 

Alfred (the plant, not the gentleman) and Aziraphale found themselves on their own again one evening.

 

As per usual on their quiet evenings together, Aziraphale sat at his desk, with a few books cracked open. Just for show, apparently, as his eyes were not currently scanning any of their pages. He was much more invested in the bottle of wine he had decided to share with Alfred (‘ _A glass for me, and a splash for you, my dear friend._ ’)

 

“It’s too bad Crowley was so lethargic during the 1300s. I assume I can’t blame him. I had after all done some very good work with chivalry in that time. Or, perhaps, it was because he slept so often that chivalry was so successful… it did all start to go a bit sour once he was out and about again. But I digress- I do wish he had been around for more of it. I believe he would have been quite fond of Geoffrey Chaucer. I met the man a few times myself, you know! Brilliant fellow, had some very strong opinions on men of the cloth,” Aziraphale explained.

 

“We have spoken about it, myself and Crowley that is, about Chaucer’s work. Crowley was quite fond of the bit in his poem about ‘Friars flying out of satan’s arse’.” he added, unable to stop a smile from breaking out on his face with a soft chuckle.

 

Alfred did not seem quite as amused. At the mere mention of the demon’s name, it quivered lightly.

 

Aziraphale noticed the plant’s nervousness, and tutted lightly at it.

 

“You know, he really is not as terrible as me makes himself out to be. He has a very convincing act, to be sure, but it _is_ an act,” Aziraphale said.

 

The plant did not seem convinced.

 

“You’d have to see it to believe, I’m sure. Just the other day, while we were walking through the park, we saw a group of young boys picking on a poor little girl. They had pushed her on the ground, and made her skin a knee. Crowley, actually, sent out his powers and cured the poor girl’s wound while I was still caught up in my own thoughts about how unfair it was! I’m sure he didn’t want me to notice, but I did,” he explained, fondly.

 

“He must have given her some extra strength as well. She got right back up and punched that young man square in the face. I’m still not sure if it was a fiendish thing to do or a kind one… it may have been a bit of both,” he added.

 

“Surely, he isn’t a saint. But if he was, perhaps I wouldn’t be quite as fond of him as I am. If he was completely righteous and good, he just… wouldn’t be Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “He’s incomparable to anything in Heaven, or Hell, or even on Earth. He’s not quite human, he’s quite an ineffective demon, and he’s certainly no angel. He’s…. Crowley. Just Crowley.”

 

The plant drooped, still seemingly unconvinced.

 

Aziraphale sighed, leaning on his desk, gazing down at the plant.

 

“I know you haven’t been able to experience it yourself. It’s hard to have faith in something without hard evidence… you must have seen some of it though? I dare say, I believe the way he behaves in my company is almost close to ‘civil’. Surely you’ve seen something?”

 

The plant paused, unsure of how to communicate such a complicated response without a mouth to speak through.

 

Aziraphale waited for a moment. After that moment his face lit up, suddenly excited at the chance to act on a brilliant idea.

 

“How about this. If you can…. Raise your leaves for yes, and lower them for a no. Can you do that?”

 

After a brief moment of hesitation, the plant responded. It gathered its energy, and stretched its leaves and stalks as high into the sky as it could, as if looking for a high-up source of sunlight.

 

This made Aziraphale audibly gasp, before he clapped his hands together to applaud Alfred’s efforts.

 

“Incredible! Absolutely splendid! So you do understand what I’m saying to you?”

 

Once again, Alfred raised its leaves upwards. Yes. It could understand.

 

“Extraordinary! Great work, old chap! This is- why, this is … wait until Crowley sees this! It’ll knock him right off his feet!”

 

The plant dropped its leaves as far down as it could, shaking with fear.

 

“... No? You don’t want me to tell him?” Aziraphale asked, confusion breaking through his joyous celebration. He frowned slightly. “I know the two of you have had your troubles in the past, but I am sure he’d be fascinated by this. Why wouldn’t you want him to know?”

 

The plant laid still, unable to figure out how to convey such a complicated response to Aziraphale’s very complicated question.

 

Aziraphale realized his mistake. “Ah, terribly sorry. Right. Let’s see…”

 

Aziraphale thought carefully, before speaking up again.

 

“Do you not want him to know, because you don’t like him?” he asked.

 

Alfred considered it, but dropped its leaves down. Alfred did _not_ like Crowley, but that wasn’t the reason for its desire to not share the information.

 

“Hmm. Then, is it because you’re afraid he’ll be angry with you?” Aziraphale asked.

 

Alfred’s leaves shot up. Alfred was quite sure that if Crowley knew about this new development, the next development would be a swift plant execution.

 

“And why should he be angry about such a wonderful thing?” Aziraphale asked now, raking his mind for some memory that could be a clue to this new puzzle that sat before him. “Does he not like talking plants?”

 

Alfred was unsure of Crowley’s position on the communication habits of plants. It raised and lowered its leaves slightly, as if to shrug at Aziraphale.

 

“No, that can’t be it. Do you have information you’re not allowed to share with me?” he asked.

 

The plants leaves shot up directly, for that was the exact reason.

 

“A ha! I appear to have struck the nail on the head! As they say,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You have witnessed, or perhaps overheard something, that Crowley does not want me knowing about. Poor thing, that must have been the reason he tried to vault you down into the street in the first place…”

 

Aziraphale was now placed in an interesting moral dilemma.

 

Whatever secrets this plant held onto was clearly very important information. Aziraphale doubted it was any sort of information about heaven or hell. Even before their friendship had truly cemented itself, Crowley had no qualms about sharing ‘top secret information’ with his angelic counterpart. It had always been Aziraphale who kept secrets. No, if it was anything having to do with the supernatural, Crowley would have certainly said something.

 

The only reason Crowley could possibly have for not speaking to Aziraphale about this mysterious knowledge was either because the information could cause harm to one or both of them, or put them in an otherwise a very uncomfortable position.

 

On one hand, Aziraphale wanted to respect Crowley’s privacy. Everyone had the right to their own secrets, things they didn’t want to share with others. But Aziraphale and Crowley had _always_ done everything together. Especially after the failed apocalypse, which seemed to strengthen their relationship into an unstoppable force of neither good nor evil. But regardless of the strength of their friendship, Crowley had his own reasons for not talking to Aziraphale about this. No matter what the reason was, the proper and good thing to do would be to sit back and wait until Crowley found it appropriate to bring it up in conversation.

 

On the other hand. Aziraphale **_REALLY_ ** wanted to know what it was. He had a hundred possibilities running through his head, none of which made any more sense than the previous theory. He had only gained knowledge of this secret for a few short minutes, and it was already eating away at his thoughts.

 

“No,” he told Alfred, but mostly himself. “I shouldn’t pry. That would be the wrong thing to do. I’ll have to be patient, and wait! Surely he’ll want to speak about it with me eventually. Right? Surely,” Aziraphale said. He stood up from his desk.

 

“I’ll have to take my mind off of it until then! I’ll make myself some cocoa. Do you want any, Alfred?” he asked.

 

The plant dropped its leaves down. Alfred wasn’t terribly fond of cocoa. Too hot. It prefered whiskey, or a good bourbon.

 

“Right. Cocoa for one,” Aziraphale said.

 

The angel exited the room, making his way into the kitchen.

 

He was back in the book shop a moment later, while waiting for the kettle to heat up.

 

“I mean I _really_ shouldn’t ask. It would be a horrible invasion of privacy. It would be absolutely terrible if I tried to pry into this. I must stand my ground, and accept that this isn’t information meant for my ears. Even if you’re not really saying it…. But oh, goodness, I’d still know. And that’s wrong,” Aziraphale said. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk, letting out a frustrated sigh.

 

“Unless… no. No! Don’t even let me ask any more questions, we are through with this conversation,” he huffed out.

 

The kettle began to whistle. Aziraphale scurried out of the room again.

 

He came back a minute later with a fresh cup of hot cocoa, sitting back down at the desk.

 

“I must know though. Is this information about me? Surely that’s not improper to ask. Just if it concerns me, or someone else. Is it about me?”

 

Alfred paused, then raised his leaves.

 

Aziraphale let out a frustrated groan, reaching up to rub at his face.

 

“Oh, why did you tell me that? Of course it’s about me! Oh, now I’m never going to be able to stop thinking about it. But I can’t ask anything else! We’ve already gone too far, and now I know even more information than what I’ve accidentally stumbled on. We’re getting into dangerous territory, Alfred! But I am an angel, and you are a gentleman- or well. A gentleplant. And neither of us are going to continue down this road of conversation any longer!” Aziraphale proclaimed.

 

Not even two moments later, his gaze snapped back to the plant.

 

“But is he angry with me? If he’s angry with me I should know about it, so I can think about what I may have done to make him cross, and apologize if I’ve upset him in some way. Is he angry?”

 

Alfred dropped its leaves, suddenly wishing it had a bit more whisky to go along with this conversation.

 

Aziraphale’s brows pushed together on his head, confused now.

 

“He’s not? Then what could he possibly not want me to know about? He’s not planning a surprise for me, is he?”

 

The plant dropped its leaves. No surprises. Quite the opposite, really.

 

“No surprises. And he’s not angry. But there’s still something that would surely drive him to attempted plant-based murder were I to find out about it. I suppose I could ask him directly… but what if he doesn’t tell me? Then not only would your life be in danger, dear boy, but I’d still have no information. And might not ever get that information,” he said. He interrupted himself, holding up a hand, as if to stop himself.

 

“Which I _shouldn’t_! It would be wrong of me to know. It could be something like… a new hobby of his he’s embarrassed to admit he likes. Oh, but that wouldn’t have anything to do with me. It must be about me, but it’s not anger, and it’s not a surprise. It could be… dear god, don’t tell me he has a secret lover?”

 

The thought, oddly enough, made Aziraphale feel sick to his stomach, and made his chest begin to ache as if someone had suddenly constricted it, and would not stop squeezing.

 

The plant dropped its leaves before Aziraphale’s anxiety could get any worse. He let out an audible sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Then… I suppose it’s nothing I need to concern myself with. Whatever if it, is an innocent secret. Me gaining that knowledge will not be helpful. The best thing I can do is forget this conversation ever happened,” Aziraphale said. With a sudden burst of determination, he sat up from his desk, leaving his still warm cocoa behind on the desk.

 

“I’ll re-organize the fiction section! That’s what I’ll do! Something constructive,” he said.

 

Aziraphale left the plant and his desk behind, muttering to himself about how he ought to start making people complete an IQ test before they are allowed in his book store, because _some_ people just have no idea how to put books back where they belong.

 

Aziraphale returned to the desk five minutes later, with a glass of whisky for himself, a shot for Alfred, a blank piece of paper, and a pen.

 

“I know it won’t _help,_ but I can’t see how it could hurt. Right? I mean, I’ve gone all this time not knowing. Surely if I do know but I don’t say anything about it, it’ll be just the same as if I never knew. Right?”

 

Alfred did raise its leaves at this point. Not to tempt the angel into seeking forbidden truths, as Aziraphale would have believed, but rather to indicate that it would very much like that shot of whisky deposited into its roots immediately.

 

“Right,” Aziraphale said, with a smile. He picked up the shot, dumped it onto the topsoil, then took a sizeable gulp from his own glass. He picked up the pen, steadying it over the paper.

 

“Now, let’s see. Question 1: Is this secret about what happened with Isabella Stewart Gardner’s museum? I know he did more than just vaguely tempt those robbers, he still won’t admit it to me, the stubborn old serpent”

 

* * *

 

Many hours later, well after the sun rose, Aziraphale had the answer he was looking for.

 

The book store stayed closed that day, and the day after that as well.

 

* * *

 

On the third day, Crowley came by the store for a visit.

 

He leaned lazily against the door frame and gave it a few solid knocks with his knuckles, calling out.

 

“Angel! You in there? …. Don’t bother with not answering, I know you are,” he said.

 

Sure enough, after his voice rang out, he heard some peculiar crashing sounds from inside. Followed by the quick scuffle of feet, before one of the doors was thrown open by a certain flustered looking angel.

 

“Ah! Crowley! My dea- ah. Yes! How lov- err. Or, well. Very nice seeing you! Well and good, yes. Please! Come in!” Aziraphale said, stepping aside so Crowley could slink his way into the book store.

 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious of Aziraphale’s behavior. Nevertheless, he did slink in, allowing Aziraphale to close and lock the door behind him.

 

“Have you been cleaning up in here or something?” Crowley asked, looking around the room for some sign of what had gotten Aziraphale’s feathers in a bunch. The store looked worse than it’s usual clutter, but then, it always did somehow manage to look even messier every time Aziraphale attempted to tidy it up.

 

“Not quite! I did try to do that about a week ago, but I couldn’t find anywhere proper to put the historical biographies. I have half the mind to throw them all out, very few of them are historically accurate to what actually happened. I won’t of course, throw them out, but I’ve heavily considered it,” Aziraphale said, looking everywhere in the room besides Crowley.

 

“Would you like anything to drink? Tea? Wine?” Aziraphale asked suddenly.

 

Crowley frowned slightly, looking down at his diver’s watch.

 

“Wine? At… half past noon?” he asked. Not that he was ever opposed to day drinking, it was in fact one of his favorite activities. But something about Aziraphale offering that up the second he walked through the door felt off.

 

“Well, you know how the saying goes! At two points in the world, at any hour of the day, it is always 5 in the afternoon,” Aziraphale said. He hurried off to the back room to fetch some glasses and wine, before Crowley could complain about his terrible interpretation of yet another modern idiom.

 

Crowley continued his search for context clues in the minute Aziraphale was gone, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Well, almost nothing.

 

“Right then! Here we are!” Aziraphale said as he bustled back in the room. “Won’t you sit down, old friend?”

 

“Where’s the plant?” Crowley asked, glazing over Aziraphale’s comment.

 

“... Pardon?”

 

“The plant,” Crowley repeated, motioning to its usual spot in Aziraphale’s bookshop. “Plant’s gone. Did you finally do it in, past the saving grace of God’s miracles?”

 

“Oh. Yes, Alfred. Well he’s-... he’s on a vacation,” Aziraphale said hesitantly.

 

“Bloody hell, you named it?” Crowley groaned. “What’s a plant need a vacation for? It’s not like it does anything around here.”

 

Truthfully, the alocasia was on vacation, in a sense. Aziraphale had temporarily moved it into a lovely church garden, as it would surely need a safe haven once Crowley became aware of the plant’s involvement in Aziraphale’s new-found knowledge.

 

“Please sit, Crowley. I would be ever so grateful if you sat down on the couch now,” Aziraphale requested, having filled the wine glasses with more wine than should ever reasonably sit inside of one.

 

None of this was doing anything to calm Crowley’s nerves. He crossed the room, moving up next to Aziraphale, taking his sunglasses off to get a proper look at him.

 

“What’s this about, angel? Did something happen? Is someone coming for you? What are you hiding from me?” he asked.

 

Aziraphale let out a small huff. “Like you haven’t been doing the same,”

 

“ _What_?” Crowley hissed out

 

Aziraphale’s shoulders sank a bit, calming himself, and genuinely touched by Crowley’s very un-hidden concern.

 

“No, my dear, I’m fine. Truly. I just… I think it’s terribly important for us to have a conversation. But I need you to be sitting for it. I’ll get there in time. But… please. Have a seat, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

Crowley stayed for a moment, eyes squinted, trying to read anything he could off of Aziraphale’s face. Finally he conceded, moving away from the angel. He took a seat on the couch, put his sunglasses down on the table, spread his legs out comfortably, and took his almost overflowing wine glass.

 

“Right then,” he said, making a grand gesture to himself. “I’ve sat. The floor is yours, angel. I’m all ears.”

 

Aziraphale let out a small sigh, collecting himself. He went from nervously fidgeting with his hands in front of him, to pulling out a white sheet of paper from his pocket, that had scribbled writing all over it.

 

“Right. Now if you don’t mind, old friend, I have some questions I’d like to ask you. You are allowed to not answer, of course, but I would greatly appreciate it if you answered each one of these as truthfully as possible,” Aziraphale said.

 

“Really?” Crowley asked, confused. “What is this? Some kind of game?”

 

“It’s not. It’s a series of questions that I’d greatly appreciate having the answers to,” Aziraphale responded.

 

Crowley still didn’t get it. But it was interesting enough, so he shrugged lightly.

 

“Have it your way. Shoot,” he said.

 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said first. He then looked down to his paper, clutching it as if it were a lifeline dragging him out of the ocean after the sinking of the Titanic.

 

“Question one: Are you currently angry with me?” Aziraphale asked.

 

“I might be if this is a long-winded conversation about my sleeping habits,” Crowley said sarcastically.

 

“Crowley, please take this seriously. It is very important,” Aziraphale said, more sternly.

 

Crowley made a show of groaning and rolling his eyes, but gave in.

 

“No, angel. I am not, currently, angry with you,” Crowley answered.

 

“Right. Question two: Are you currently planning any sort of surprises for me? Be they a surprise party, a surprise gift, or perhaps a trip to an enjoyable location or eating establishment?”

 

“Am I… what? Planning a surprise? Are you going to be upset at me if I say I’m not?” Crowley asked back.

 

“This is currently, for the foreseeable future, a judgement free zone. Any response you give, unless it is sarcastic or trying to change the topic of conversation, is an acceptable response,” Aziraphale assured him, quite earnestly.

 

“Then no. I am not planning a surprise for you. _Definitely_ not a party, I’d rather choke on broken glass than do something like that,” Crowley explained.

 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. Both in response to Crowley’s answer, and Crowley’s distaste in surprise parties. Aziraphale liked parties, but only when they were held in honor of other people, and definitely not when the party itself was surprising.

 

“Now. Question three: At the Isabella Stewart Gardner muse-”

 

“That was me,” Crowley said, cutting Aziraphale off before he could finish his statement.

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, looking quite cross about the sudden reveal. “You had told me, quite specifically if I recall correctly, that you had only ‘influenced’ those events!”

 

“Well no one died, did they?” Crowley questioned.

 

“No. And that’s _exactly_ how I knew you were more involved than you said you were…. But that’s off topic, for now. We _will_ be talking about this again later,” Aziraphale insured his companion.

 

“Sure, sure,” Crowley said, with a wave of his hand. “What are we on now? Question four?”

 

Aziraphale glared at Crowley for one more moment, before he returned to his cherished piece of paper.

 

“Exactly. Question four… Are you afraid of losing me?”

 

Crowley was caught, more than incredibly, off guard by that question. He almost spat his sip of wine back into the glass when asked that, having to place the glass back on the table to avoid any further potential accidents.

 

“You- … What?” Crowley asked, rather ungracefully.

 

“I mean… do you ever feel… are you concerned about the fact that some day, for one reason or another, I may… disappear? Do you have any anxieties about me being, for instance, forcibly sent back to heaven, or worse, leaving of my own accord?” Aziraphale asked. His gaze was trained on the paper in his hands, not able to look towards Crowley just yet.

 

“I don’t like where this is going, Aziraphale” Crowley responded.

 

“Don’t fret, my dear, it’s just a hypothetical statement. I fully intend on staying put, exactly where I am, for many more years to come. Or even in the off chance I did travel anywhere, I would absolutely refuse to do so without you by my side. I just- … I need to know your thoughts on the matter.” Aziraphale explained.

 

“You know my thoughts on the matter,” Crowley responded.

 

“I do. At least, I’m quite sure I do. But I need to hear them… from you. Personally,” Aziraphale said.

 

Crowley stopped, absolutely silent. He looked around the room, as if plotting out potential escape routes. He wasn’t settled in his seat as lazily as before, probably wouldn’t be for the rest of the evening, but he did stay put.

 

“.... It’s come up in my thoughts. Once or twice. I don’t dwell on it, but. I think about it,” Crowley said. Every word out of his mouth came hesitantly, as if any single syllable was a wire in a nuclear bomb he had to make sure to cut at the exact right angle to avoid detonation. “Having you around… is very important to me.”

 

“For about a year after the failed apocalypse, you kept surveillance on me. You called me multiple times a week, and I sensed your presence walking by the book store, looking through the windows to see if I was there, many ti-”

 

“And what do you want me to do, hmm? Apologize for that? Do you want me to be sorry for fucking caring about whether you were still alive or not?” Crowley spat out defensively, suddenly and significantly more tensed than he was before.

 

Aziraphale seemed somewhat taken aback by that.

 

“Crowley I-... I’m sorry. Genuinely. I didn’t mean that in any sort of confrontational manner. You don’t need to apologize, for anything,” he said, trying to calm the tension suddenly rampant in the air.

 

He knew that whenever Crowley became uncomfortable, he got angry. He couldn’t handle weakness, or vulnerability. It was so much easier to mask that weakness with hissing and teeth and spite and malice.

 

Crowley was still tense, but Aziraphale’s words seemed to convince him to back away from the proverbial ledge a bit. He settled himself, arms crossed firmly over his chest.

 

But Crowley was still clearly uncomfortable, so Aziraphale continued.

 

“I wanted to hear it from you, because we’ve …. Well, we’ve never spoken about this before. Neither of us have ever put it into words. Sometimes I feel like I know you about as well as I know myself, but I fear that that familiarity has made me… take you for granted,” Aziraphale explained.

 

Aziraphale paced a bit. It was his turn to open himself up, to show his own weaknesses and vulnerabilities. And it was, by far, the hardest thing he ever had to do (including saving the entire world from Armageddon).

 

Aziraphale hadn’t planned to share this information until question 56, but after a moment of internal debate, he felt it was more appropriate to share it immediately. Before Crowley got fed up and frustrated and left the book store in a cloud of smoke and particles.

 

“... If you ever went somewhere, I’d have lost the single most important thing in my life. More than my grace, more than my dignity…. More than all of the powers God has blessed me with. I’d throw all of it out the window if it was the only way I could keep you with me. Thankfully, we’ve been blessed with the ability to have both. But I think about the possibilities sometimes. And I worry about it constantly. But I’ve already made my decision. As long as I have you… nothing else matters,” Aziraphale said.

 

There was silence in the room after that. Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to look towards Crowley, so he had no idea whether the demon was mocking him or sympathizing with him.

 

But Crowley did eventually speak up. The lack of sarcasm, lack of bile or malice, lack of anything negative in his voice was almost too much for Aziraphale to bear.

 

“I never knew you felt that way,” Crowley admitted.

 

“Of course you did. I haven’t hidden any of that from you,” Aziraphale responded.

 

“I wanted to believe that. But.. it seemed too good to be true,” Crowley said. He made a face after he said ‘good to be true’, knowing that goodness should be the last thing he should possibly desire.

 

“So we’re on the same page? Maybe, you don’t feel it as powerfully as I do, or in such terms. But… we’re important to one another?” Aziraphale asked.

 

“Same terms. I can’t see any differences on my end,” Crowley said.

 

“Right. Of course. So we’ve agreed…” Aziraphale said. As difficult as the previous topic had been, it was only the beginning of their evening. They had plenty far more embarrassing and difficult topics to cover.

 

So with a clearing of his throat, and a pink tinge on his cheeks, Aziraphale continued.

 

“Question Five: Are you now, or have you ever been, romantically involved wi-”

 

“You were talking to that bloody _fucking_ plant,” Crowley growled out. He stood up now, and no amount of wine could make him reclaim his seat. He started moving around the room on his own, digging through the plethora of books in Aziraphale’s store. “Where is it?! Where are you hiding it?!”

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, following after his companion in a futile attempt to stop him before he damaged any books. He grabbed hold of one of Crowley’s arms. “I told you, Alfred’s not here! I moved him to another location! He’s somewhere you won’t be able to find,” he said.

 

Crowley stopped throwing piles of books aside, turning on his heel so he could face Aziraphale. Aziraphale dropped his grasp on Crowley’s arm, but Crowley reached up and grabbed onto both of Aziraphale’s upper arms.

 

“What did it tell you,” Crowley demanded.

 

“It-” Aziraphale started. The words died in his throat, suddenly finding it hard to concentrate. His heart was pounding in his chest, all the way up to his ears. He cleared his throat, and continued. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

 

“Bullsh-”

 

“He didn’t!” Aziraphale cut Crowley off. “I swear! He can’t speak. But I figured out he can understand what you’re saying, and he can move on his own so… I asked questions, and he answered,” he explained.

 

“Then what did you _ask_ it?” Crowley asked, patience wearing thinner by the second.

 

“I … well first, I wanted to know what you had against him. So I figured out there was something you didn’t want Alfred to tell me. I thought that perhaps, I had made you cross somehow, or you were planning something for me, so I-... I investigated,” Aziraphale said.

 

“ _And_?” Crowley asked

 

“It’s not as bad as you think. Or you may think. All I learned is that you were afraid of losing me, and... that you don’t want anything to change between us,” Aziraphale answered.

 

Crowley seemed to calm down, ever so slightly, when he heard those words. He stopped gritting his teeth, but kept hold of Aziraphale’s arms.

 

“... So why ask me? If you’d already heard it from the plant?” Crowley asked.

 

“I wanted to hear it from you, personally. Alfred’s lovely, but I wasn’t prepared to believe any of it until I heard it from you” said Aziraphale.

 

“So. You did all of this, just to hear me confirm what a houseplant told you,” Crowley asked dryly.

 

“Not quite. There’s a few more questions on my list that I didn’t ask Alfred. He can only respond to yes or no questions, and some of them are a bit more… complicated than that,” Aziraphale said.

 

“Well, here. Let me help you with that,” Crowley said. He swiped his hands down the lengths of Aziraphale’s arms, using the distraction and quick timing to snag the piece of paper out of his hand. He ignored Aziraphale’s squawk of protest, holding it in the air out of reach, with a small miraculous shield around it in case the angel had any thoughts about disposing of the paper via heavenly magics.

 

Crowley began to walk away, raising his voice as he read through the questions.

 

“‘ _Are you now, or have you ever been, romantically involved with a being? Supernatural, human, or otherwise_ ’. That’s a no, proud bachelor since whenever this whole existence mess started,” Crowley began.

 

Aziraphale tried his best to retrieve the paper, even going as low as to try jumping for it while he asked as politely as he could given the current circumstances for Crowley to return the page to him.

 

“‘ _Have you_ -’ hell, your handwriting is terrible, ‘ _Have you ever, or are you currently, sexually active_?’,” Crowley said. He paused for a moment, looking to Aziraphale’s face. “That’s an interesting one.”

 

“Crowley, please! This isn’t funny!” Aziraphale exclaimed, face reddening significantly with shame and embarrassment.

 

“If you must know, I have. In the past. Tried it a few times, just to see what the big fuss was about. Not nearly as interesting and humans make it out to be,” Crowley said, suddenly much more amused by their current situation.

 

It was too much for Aziraphale. He gave up on trying to retrieve his paper, opting instead to cross the room and sit down on the couch, holding his head in his hands, almost tempted to will a sudden natural disaster into being. Some sort of sinkhole that would swallow up the whole book shop and put an end to this.

 

But no sink holes appeared. Crowley smirked, and continued to walk about the room, reading from the list.

 

“‘ _What are your thoughts on marriage_?’ Well the part with the weddings is gaudy. Excellent places to spike up a bit of jealousy, sure, plenty of opportunities for work. And I suppose the bit with the stuffing cake in each other’s faces is “fun”. But there's always too much crying, not really my scene,” Crowley said.

 

Crowley was too caught up in his own mischief to catch onto where these questions were going.

 

“‘ _Do you see us spending the rest of eternity together_ ?’” Crowley read. That part made him pause. He tried to be nonchalant about his response. “Well. Sure. We’ve known each other this long, haven’t we? Of course there’s no way to really know if we’ll even have an eternity of existence. Downstairs will eventually want to try for a second apocalypse. But if the _ineffable_ plan involves us never going out of existence then….” Crowley trailed off a bit, voice softening despite his best intentions to act casual. “Yeah. I’d like that,” he said,

 

Aziraphale took his head out of his hands, looking towards Crowley.

 

“... Really? You would?” Aziraphale asked.

 

“Of course,” Crowley responded, with no hesitation. “We make a good team.”

 

“We… we work well together. You and I. If anyone could make it to eternity, it’s us,” Aziraphale said.

 

“So we’re in agreement. We don’t want to lose each other, we care about each other’s well being, and we’d like to keep doing that for the foreseeable and unforeseeable future,” Crowley said.

 

Aziraphale nodded, so Crowley looked back to the list.

 

“Let’s skip to the last one, keep things interesting. ‘ _Are you in lov_ -’”

 

Crowley cut himself off. He suddenly wished he had his sunglasses back on. There wasn’t any excuse for mis-reading what was on the page in front of him, and his eyes were wide as saucers now.

 

He read the question back to himself several times in his head, silently, taking a while to process the words before him.

 

Aziraphale wasn’t looking in Crowley’s direction. He focused down on his hands in his lap, fidgeting with them.

 

“... It’s okay if you aren’t, you know,” Aziraphale said. “It…. it was stupid of me to ask-”

 

“It’s not that I-...” Crowley cut in, suddenly at a loss for words. He sounded almost frantic, starting to pace while the gears in his head turned desperately. “Not that I don’t lo-... or, that I don’t care about you. I do care. I _Really_ care. I like you more than I like anything or anyone else. But its-.... I’m-... it’s not a word I think can apply to what I… it’s complicated” he tried to explain.

 

“Would you care to enlighten me?” Aziraphale asked, trying not to sound broken-hearted.

 

The sadness in the voice did nothing to calm Crowley’s nerves. He fought internally between the desire to comfort Aziraphale, to tell him anything to make him perk up again, and a sea of buzzing rampaging confusion and conflicting thoughts in his head.

 

“That word. It’s… a very unique feeling. I think. I don’t do feelings,” Crowley said.

 

“Yes you do,” said Aziraphale.

 

“What? No I don’t,” retorted Crowley.

 

“Yes. You do,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’ve seen it”

 

“Fine. I have feelings. Sometimes. But they’re never _good_ feelings. I want you around because I’d be bored and lonely without you. And I hate when you recognize someone when we’re out at dinner because you always invite them to the damn table to eat with us, because I want your full attention and don’t want to share it with anyone. And I do nice stuff for you and give you gifts because I know you like it, so it makes you like me more. It’s not… it’s not nice, or good, or fair. It’s selfish. I’ve seen relationships built on selfishness, they always go bottom side up,” Crowley said, leaving out a ‘ _-and I would never want to do something like that to you’_.

 

Shockingly, instead of pushing Aziraphale further into broken-hearted woe, he seemed to perk up upon hearing that. He turned his head to look at Crowley, examining him carefully.

 

Crowley found it hard to keep eye contact. He looked away, grumbling. “What? What is it?”

 

“Well, I think love _is_ selfish. I don’t think you can be in love with someone without a bit of selfishness sprinkled into it,” Aziraphale said. “Love always comes with desire. And wanting.”

 

“But it can’t be built on selfishness. There’s got to be more to the formula than that. Otherwise it’s just an obsession,” Crowley argued.

 

“Well, I think you’re exaggerating your selfish feelings to make a point. And I think you’re ignoring anything that doesn’t fit your theory, because it’s convenient,” Aziraphale said.

 

Crowley squinted his eyes slightly, glaring. “That’s a very bold argument of you to make, angel,” he said.

 

Aziraphale stood up, and with a sudden new-found confidence, crossed the room to stand in front of Crowley.

 

“It is bold. But I’m very confident about it. I know I’m right,” Aziraphale said. “I know because I’ve done something similar, while thinking about this topic.”

 

Crowley had to fight the urge to take a step back.

 

“What, you’ve been debating about whether you have feelings for me or not?” Crowley asked, attempting sarcasm.

 

“I have,” Aziraphale responded, bluntly. “I thought it would be illogical to say that I am in love with you. I thought that my emotions were indicative of any normal, healthy friendship. And that caring for someone’s well being and safety, wanting to spend time with them, and enjoying watching them thrive, wasn’t romantic.”

 

“Makes sense,” Crowley replied warily.

 

“But then I realize that I too, am capable of being selfish. You are an incredibly attractive man, and flashy. Anywhere you go, you’re bound to draw some gazes and interest. It’s very difficult for me to ignore that. I should be happy for you, but instead I find myself all twisted up inside. Because how _dare_ they think that they have more of a chance with you than I do, the man standing right next to you,” Aziraphale stated confidently. He had considered this for plenty of years, but finally came to a conclusion within the past few days, and was therefore quite clear-headed about the situation.

 

“I love and appreciate all of God’s creatures, and humans. I find them fascinating. But part of their beauty is how fleeting they are. They come and they go, and no matter how much it goes away, newer and more beautiful and brighter things come back to replace the hole that was left. You’re not like any of that to me, though. You’re like… a book,” Aziraphale said.

 

Crowley, incredibly shocked at Aziraphale’s bluntness, but still not beyond banter, piped in. “A book?”

 

“Yes, quite like a book. Like the rarest, oldest book in the history of the world. One I wouldn’t dare put out on the store floor in case someone had the audacity to ask to buy it or worse, steal it. I don’t want anyone else to touch you, or look at you, or want you. I… I want to have you. I want to have you all to myself,” Aziraphale said.

 

That comment cast a harsh, thick crack through the hard shell around Crowley’s heart. It took all the effort left in him to not gasp audibly.

 

Even worse for Crowley, Aziraphale reached out, and took one of his hands. Crowley didn’t fight it, allowing the angel to hold onto him with no resistance.

 

“Just because I want to own you, doesn’t mean I’ll act on that. It’s a selfish feeling, but it doesn’t mean I’ll inevitably act selfishly. I’ll always allow you to go anywhere you want, see whoever you want, and act in any way you please. Being in love isn’t a good or bad thing. It’s a balance. And I happen to think if anyone could pull it off, it would be an angel who isn’t always so good, and a demon who isn’t always so bad,” Aziraphale said.

 

Aziraphale waited a few moments, to allow that information to sink in. After Crowley stayed silent, out of witty retorts, he went on.

 

“... Crowley. I know for a fact, that I am in love with you. I have been for quite some time now. Madly in love with you. But if that’s too much for you, or you’d really rather not change anything between us, I will understand and accept your wishes,” said Aziraphale.

 

After another moment of silence, Aziraphale dropped his grip on Crowley’s hand, prepared to pull it away.

 

Crowley, this time, was the one to grab hold of Aziraphale’s hand, before he could pull it away. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Aziraphale’s face, focused on their joined hands instead, trying to will his own to stop shaking.

 

“... I think,” he started to say, very slowly. “... sometimes, when you smile at something… it makes me… feel… happy. Maybe in a way that isn’t entirely selfish,” he said. “You … look good when you smile. And I like knowing you’re happy.”

 

That, itself, made Aziraphale smile warmly. He squeezed onto Crowley’s hand, tenderly.

 

“And I’m sure there’s much more than that, my dear. I’m sure we’ll figure it out, together,” he said. “But for now, I’m sure this has all been quite a bit much to think about, hmm? I’ve had a few days to think over it, you’ll need the same time to process things. There’s plenty more days to come,” he added.

 

Without letting go of his hand, Aziraphale took a step closer to the couch.

 

“Come along then. Let’s sit back down and enjoy the rest of the evening, shall we?”

 

Crowley moved across the room with him, head still foggy and thoughts racing much faster than he would have liked.

 

They both sat down on the couch, in their usual spots, Aziraphale happily going to re-fill the wine glasses that neither of them had had a chance to finish in the first place.

 

While he did that, Crowley watched. After a few moments of silence, he had just one more thing to say on the matter.

 

“Angel?”

 

“Mmm. Yes? What is it?”

 

“... Things are going to change now, aren’t they,” Crowley asked.

 

“They might. All for the better, I hope.”

 

“They will change. How do you know it’s going to be for the better?”

 

“Well… I don’t, actually. I have no idea what’s going to happen,” Aziraphale said. “However, things have changed for us before, right? We went from mere acquaintances, to friends. And I’d argue that that was an astounding success,” he said.

 

Crowley considered it for a moment, and then nodded.

 

Aziraphale handed a newly filled wine glass to Crowley, holding up his own afterwards, to toast.

 

“Well then. Here’s to another new beginning,” Aziraphale said.

 

Crowley, despite everything, despite the anxiety still clawing at his gut and the uncertainty of the future, smiled genuinely.

 

“To eternity,” he offered.

 

“To eternity,” Aziraphale replied.

 

* * *

 

It took Crowley many, many weeks before he was able to say the words “feelings” and “love” without feeling like a frog was crawling up through the back of his throat, threatening to vault out of his mouth.

 

He got the hang of it eventually.

 

It took them about a year longer to actually get around to ‘kissing’.

 

Shockingly, Crowley initiated it, driven by a sudden surge of passion after witnessing Aziraphale explosively complain about the nerve of a police officer who had dared tried to give him a rather expensive ticket for jaywalking next to the crosswalk instead of directly on top of it.

 

It was short, chaste, and sweet.

 

Aziraphale hadn’t complained for the rest of the day, after that.

 

(It got to be a problem some years later when Crowley found out that kissing the angel was an incredibly effective way of silencing him while they were having a disagreement, but that’s a story for another day.)

 

Alfred was eventually allowed to move back in with Aziraphale, on the condition that Crowley was able to choose an appropriate punishment for the plant’s disobedience. It was eventually decided that the plant would not be allowed to have any form of wine, or whisky, or bourbon, until Crowley deemed the plant worthy of such a thing.

 

Aziraphale still snuck the plant whisky any time Crowley wasn’t around.

 

The two eventually did start to see each other every day.

 

And the two eventually did move in together, to a beautiful quaint little college in the countryside.

 

And the two eventually got rings for each other. Humble gold and silver bands, that simply said “eternity” on the inside rim.

 

And they truly, fully, lived happily ever after.

 

_You light the room to the house of my soul,_

_Goddamn_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments, kudos, and sharing are greatly appreciated if you'd like to see another good omens fic from me in the future!


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